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<title>Is It Vexing (Wearing Clothes You Have Bled In)? by Gray_Skies_Rising</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280492">Is It Vexing (Wearing Clothes You Have Bled In)?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Skies_Rising/pseuds/Gray_Skies_Rising'>Gray_Skies_Rising</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Living in the Dawn and Dusk [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Dark, Basically, Because I’m fucking around with the Court in this AU and making it into my own thing, Canonical Mute Character, Dark Batfamily (DCU), Dick Grayson is a Talon, Dissociation, Gen, Mary Turner is a Talon, Not Canon Compliant, Tea, except not</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:40:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280492</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Skies_Rising/pseuds/Gray_Skies_Rising</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If he just sat here, how long would it take for them to stop hovering at the edges of his vision? How long would it be before they forgot about him? How long would it take for the spiders to weave their webs between his folded arms? How long would it take for his own flesh to rot from the inside out? How long until he was just a pile of dust and bones?</p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Stop.</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Mary Turner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Living in the Dawn and Dusk [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Is It Vexing (Wearing Clothes You Have Bled In)?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All of the typos in the italics are intentional. Title is from ‘Me and My Friends Are Lonley’ by Matt Maeson, cause I literally only listened to Matt Maeson while writing it.</p><p>Tw: general wearing that Dick just isn’t in a good headspace for this whole thing, food/drink, intrusive thoughts, self-harm (kinda), illusions to the Court of Owls and Talons.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The manor was empty.</p><p>It always was at this time of day; everyone off doing their own little things.</p><p>It was the same, day in, day out.</p><p>And yet the stillness always surprised him.</p><p>Despite calling the manor home, he might live in Blüdhaven but Gotham, the manor, was home, for nearly two decades there were still places he had never seen. Rooms he's never set foot in.</p><p>There’s a door on the East side of the house.</p><p>The door leads into a room, or course. He’s never seen the room, but he knows it’s there. Why would there be a door if there was no room behind it?</p><p>He’s seen the door.</p><p>It stands inconspicuously; looking like every other door along the hall.</p><p>It’s different. Somehow.</p><p>The grain of the wood maybe?</p><p>Perhaps it is the coloring of the wood?</p><p>The new perspective, perched on top of an adjacent door frame, does nothing to make things clearer.</p><p>Shed light.</p><p>Whatever.</p><p>Upside down doesn’t work either.</p><p>Was it the nicks and scratches in the door that only came from being as old as it was?</p><p>Nobody else ever seemed to come this way.</p><p>He once stayed here, during the beginning, for days. He knew the number then, he doesn’t now.</p><p>They checked on him; of course, but it was from afar.</p><p>They didn’t know how to do closeness then. To be fair, neither did he. They had to learn, all of them, bit by bit. Day by day.</p><p>Still are.</p><p>Still are.</p><p>
  <em> Door. </em>
</p><p>She’s been sitting there for a while. Waiting.</p><p>He hates waiting. He does it anyway.</p><p>He falls because he wants to.</p><p>She still holds him from his ankle like he was still a misbehaving owlet.</p><p>Her soul is older than his. Shown in her golden eyes being tarnished with tragedy but lit by new life. An old ring getting a new finish.</p><p>“Door.” He agrees.</p><p>There’s a warmth that comes from being cold.</p><p>It’s a warmth that they both carry with them.</p><p>It burns easily.</p><p>
  <em> Closed. </em>
</p><p>Her body is an older model. It has holes in its code and glitches are common.</p><p>She still has her original color.</p><p>New patches have erased his. </p><p>He doesn’t get jealous of her ability to have flaws. Maybe if he was a little more human; a little more flawed himself.</p><p>But alas.</p><p>The door still stands on the other side of the hall.</p><p>It is unopened. She was right.</p><p>What is beyond the old wood is still unknown.</p><p>It would probably be until the day he died.</p><p>If he just sat here, how long would it take for them to stop hovering at the edges of his vision? How long would it be before they forgot about him? How long would it take for the spiders to weave their webs between his folded arms? How long would it take for his own flesh to rot from the inside out? How long until he was just a pile of dust and bones?</p><p>No.</p><p>
  <em> Stop. </em>
</p><p>Bad thoughts.</p><p>
  <em> Bad thoughts. </em>
</p><p>Her hand is in his hair.</p><p>Her claws are blunt. Sanded down or missing all together. They tug at a snarl; he doesn’t ignore the pain.</p><p>He does not understand these moments. Moments where instincts too ingrained to be removed surface.</p><p>They probably meant something. They’re probably from his time <em> before. </em> </p><p>The linking of pinkies. The carding of fingers through hair. The wrapping of arms and squeezing. The soft press of lips against the forehead. The press of fingers on the inside of the wrist or the side of the neck searching for a pulse.</p><p>He doesn’t understand them, but he’s glad that she feels them too.</p><p>The hardwood floor burns with heat where his skin touches it. Everything does when he is like this; chest silent, veins stopped, breath still.</p><p>Cold as the dead.</p><p>Her hand stills.</p><p>He hears it too.</p><p>
  <em> Tee? </em>
</p><p>She asks but it is not a question.</p><p>The door will be there tomorrow.</p><p>There are two cups and the kettle waiting for them on the counter.</p><p>She grabs a tea bag.</p><p>He grabs the kettle. The water he pours is still boiling.</p><p>She dips her bag into the water. He doesn’t.</p><p>He, instead, takes a long drink of boiling water. The heat raises blisters on this tongue and the roof of his mouth.</p><p>The pain as it slips down his throat is real. Real in a way that the door never seems to be.</p><p>Heat rushes down his throat to his core. From there it reaches to his toes and fingers.</p><p>The countertop doesn’t burn as badly when he takes another drink. </p><p>He breaths, exhaling stale air and allowing fresh in.</p><p>She pours more water into his cup when he pushes it towards her. She slips in a tea bag before sliding it back.</p><p>He watches as the tea steeps in the cup and scrunches his nose at the smell.</p><p>Black tea is not his favorite.</p><p>She taps the counter twice. He gets the message.</p><p>He drinks.</p><p>And gags.</p><p>She is laughing at him. He glares at her.</p><p>The caffeine is gonna wreak havoc on his system, he thinks.</p><p>Not that that’s ever stopped him before.</p><p>He locks eyes with her and down the rest of his cup, gagging all the way.</p><p>She is beaming at him. Her smile stretched wide.</p><p>He returns a small one.</p><p>There’s a warmth now. Something different from the burning of everything around him. Something different from the quickly cooling water at his core.</p><p>It’s something he tells himself he’s never felt before. It’s a lie.</p><p>It’s there every time his family is safe and happy.</p><p>He reaches for the kettle to refill it and put it back on the stove.</p><p>“Thank you Mary.”</p><p>His voice is soft, only meant for her ears.</p><p>Her smile grows softer, her eyes sadder.</p><p>She pulls her pen and paper closer.</p><p>
  <em> You wood hav done the same for mee. </em>
</p><p>The door remains closed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Do you guys ever just go full on English Major on a random object? Dick does. Even though he’s a Mathlete.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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